No Laughing Matter
by J. Nelson
Summary: What if the Joker had been cured of his insanity? I ask that question in this short story.


No Laughing Matter.

This is just a short piece of fan fiction I thought of a while back and it got into my head. Now, a couple notes of interest: one, I do not own the rights to these characters, and two, I haven't actually read a Batman comicbook since 1993, so it probably feels really weak. I apologize for the ineptness of this work, but bear with me; it is my first fan fiction. Also, I know the Joker's real name isn't Rupert Hughes, but I wanted to add a little personal touch so I changed it to suit my tastes. Either way, I hope you can forgive me and accept this as a little piece of entertainment.

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The Joker was dead, and in his place Rupert Hughes stood proudly. He was sane at last. Thank God he was sane.

Rupert Hughes walked down the street, smiling at the people he saw going about their daily business. He was normal, and watching these people ignore him was wonderful, beautiful even. They didn't see a lunatic walking down the street; they only saw a rather dullish looking man in a tweed jacket and faded jeans. They saw Rupert Hughes, not the Joker.

Twelve years in Arkham had changed Rupert, and it was glorious. The first five years had been a painful nightmare, the next five just a dull, aching horror, but in the last two years some experimental treatments had worked. Rupert had been cured of his insanity and released. He was a free man now.

Of course he had to report to a probation officer three times a day, but he was still free. Able to walk down the street, able to breathe the fresh, though smoggy, air of Gotham city, and most importantly free to live a normal life. For the first time in his memory, Rupert was happy. He was so happy he would have been singing and dancing if that wasn't a sign of madness.

Take now for instance: Rupert was going to the grocery store to buy pasta. And it was one of the most liberating things he had ever done. While other people saw it as a dull annoyance, buying groceries, Rupert Hughes saw it as another sign of his freedom. Life was beautiful on this warm spring day.

Now Rupert had a life to begin, a life with Harley Quinn. The same experimental treatment that had worked for him also cured his old accomplice, though she still needed the medication on especially tough days. She was beautiful in his eyes. He wanted very much to marry her and have a normal life, with all the trials and joys that came with it.

As Rupert bought his spaghetti and paid for it with his own money, money he had earned while working as a sales clerk at a local department store, he began to think about what direction he wanted his brand new life to go in. First off, college; a proper education would be the final nail in the grave of the Joker. He would get a real job, something respectable, and make a life for him and Harley.

Life outside of Arkham was glorious. A shimmering radiance seemed to glow over everything in sight. And nothing would dampen Rupert Hughes' mood.

"Honey, I'm home!" Rupert grinned as he kicked the door to his apartment closed. "Harley?" He noticed something was wrong immediately. Books lay scattered all over the floor, the meager contents of drawers tossed here and there, and worst of all, the kitchen door was ajar.

"Oh God no," Rupert put down the groceries and rushed into the kitchen, his heart hammering in fear. He stared at the floor. "No, no, no, no…"

Harley Quinn's eyes were blank as she stared at the ceiling from where she lay on the tile floor. Her auburn hair was spread out like a pillow under her. A single bullet hole, like a sparkling ruby, dotted her tan blouse, just above her heart. The blood she lay in was glistening and it didn't take a doctor to tell she was dead.

"No…" Rupert fell to his knees by his beloved, stroking her hair. "No, no, this can't be happening! It has to be a dream, it has to be!" It wasn't. Rupert understood that and began weeping.

Three days later.

The man's name was Timothy Danson, and he was a nobody, a petty thief who occasionally worked at credit card scams. He had only graduated to murder recently.

Rupert Hughes had used some of his old contacts to keep an eye on pawn shops in his neighborhood. That's how he knew that Timothy Danson had tried to sell some of Harley's jewelry. And now he had followed the man home.

It was dark, almost ten o'clock; no one would be able to see anything from the buildings surrounding them. And if they could, Rupert wouldn't have cared. He slid the .38 he had stolen from a gun shop out of his jacket pocket as Danson climbed the steps to his apartment building.

"Timothy Danson!" He called out, raising the revolver.

"Who the hell are you?" Danson squinted at the figure he saw in bewilderment. Rupert was wearing his old mauve dress suit, though without the outrageous clown makeup. He only noticed a gun a few moments later.

"You killed her!" Rupert shouted and savored the taste of vengeance as Timothy Danson realized who he was talking about. And then Timothy Danson was dead, one bullet to the head from the .38.

It was over. _My revenge or my new life_? wondered Rupert Hughes as he turned and walked away. _Maybe both_.

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Rupert Hughes sat on the South Gotham Bridge, watching the water rush underneath his feet, his plum-colored jacket folded across one arm, and his gun on the bridge beside him, unloaded. He never wanted to touch another gun again. All he wanted was to have one last chance, to get away from this nightmare with Harley. But that wouldn't happen. There was no changing the past.

A soft engine purred to a halt behind him. Rupert didn't turn. He knew who it was.

"Batman," he said, his voice hoarse and filled with emotion.

"Joker," Batman said in that icy tone of his that never altered.

"Please, please," Rupert felt a strange sense of desperation well up inside of him. "Call me by my name, my _real_ name."

"All right, Rupert." Batman stood beside him and removed the gun. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Rupert nodded, feeling hot tears sting at his eyes. "He killed her, murdered her. He didn't have to, but he did."

The Dark Knight stepped up behind Rupert Hughes. "I know," he said softly, almost sympathetically.

"How did you find me? The whole city's been looking for days––hunting, I should say––and they've had no luck."

"When the police started getting reports of a man matching your description heading for the South Bridge, I wanted to check for myself." Batman pulled some handcuffs from his utility belt and Rupert slipped his jacket on. "I need to take you in for questioning in the murder of Timothy Danson."

"What's the point?" Rupert asked as the handcuffs clicked onto his wrists. "I did it, and I'd do it again if I could. The bastard killed her, you don't understand."

"I do, trust me," Batman said, his voice never changing a hair, but someone managing to convey something to Rupert. "I've almost strayed down your path more times than I would like. Revenge is a bitter dish, Rupert, and it poisons both the diner and the chef."

"Very philosophical," Rupert said dryly as Batman led him to the sleek Batmobile. "Am I going back to Arkham?" He asked as Batman placed him in the passenger seat.

For a moment, the Dark Knight just looked at his former nemesis, and then he shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Good," Rupert said as Batman entered the vehicle and started driving. "You know, we were going to star a life together, get married, maybe have a kid, and get away from this hellhole." He closed his eyes as Batman drove to the nearest police station. "Funny how things never work out, hmm?"

The end.

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Well, there it is. A short, rather lackluster piece of fiction. Tell me what you think. Was I so bad it made you want to retch? Or maybe you see a glimmer of hope in my inept writing. I'd love some feedback. Oh yeah, my thanks go out to any who bothered to read this story. I really, really hope at least one of you liked it. And to those that didn't, I suppose it'd only be fair to warn you that a sequel may be in order.

J. Nelson, 3–21–2007.


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